From The Roof To The Corner Of His Eye
by Shadow of the Forgotten Ones
Summary: He looks at his wings and can still see Sherlock running his fingers through feathers that aren't there anymore. It isn't enough. It isn't enough to disfigure them. To make the ghost go away. His hands clench as he hears the Not-Sherlock voicing his anguish at John doing what he is doing to his wings. His lover had loved touching his wings.


**AN: This is very Angsty. There is self-harm and semi-descriptive self-violence in this fic. Along with depressive thoughts and basically attempted suicide due to unhealthy "coping" ways. This is an AU where Sherlock dies instead of pulling a nifty trick.**

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 _John looks up, he can't look anywhere else, at the top of Saint Barts. His best friend, his lover is standing on the roof. Sherlock's voice is in his ears, static and horrible as John tries to get his tiny wings to work. It's possible that he's telling Sherlock to get away from the edge, because despite the cat ears and tail that his lover possesses the daft, brilliant man never lands on his feet._

" _Sherlock… Sherlock please," he begs. He thinks he begs._

" _Please."_

 _Emotion blocks his throat. Sherlock drops something, down it falls, in a distant way John knows that the small object is Sherlock's phone. He hears the clatter and then the dying vrring it makes. Then like the very world itself is against him the blond watches helplessly as Sherlock follows his phone down to the ground. Wings beating uselessly against his back._

John jolts awake as he always does. Halfway pushing himself off his stomach, wings fluttering and one arm reaching out for a body that isn't there. He drops back down onto the bed, muffling his sobs into his pillow. His stomach cramps, rebelling against the images his traitorous mind brings forward. It's his dream, it's a memory. Sherlock falling… falling… falling, always falling. Slow motion, arms flailing and pinwheeling, waiting for John to fly, to catch him. Only John _can't_. He _can't_ because his wings can't do anything but let him _glide_ if he manages to catch the right amount of air. His mind shows him Sherlock hitting the concrete. Shows him the bloody mess his lover became.

With a stumbling lurch, he rolls out of bed. His stomach has decided that enough is _enough_ and it's time to empty itself of the meager meal it holds. Eating has become a chore again, and without Sherlock here to prod him into eating… he just doesn't. Not really. An apple here. A bowl of soup there. Just enough to keep him moving. So his praying to the porcelain goddess quickly becomes painful dry heaving and bile covered lips. He rests his head on the lip of the toilet, punishing himself with the stench of his own sick. Because he needs to be punished. Then when it no longer attacks his nose and make him gag he stands. Shakily he flushes the toilet and goes to the sink to wash out his mouth.

The water rushes out of his cupped hands as he catches sight of his sandy brown and grey wings. The feathers are matted, are disgusting to look at. He won't touch them, won't clean them. Can't stand to. Too many memories.

" _It's absolutely fascinating."_

Sherlock's voice tickles his ears, like the man is standing behind him breathing onto his neck, phantom fingers touch his wings. _Fascinating_. He snorts angrily. Fascinating would have been the ability to save Sherlock.

" _Absolutely fascinating."_

He scrubs at his face.

" _Bushtits… social breed… weakly fly… amazing…"_

Everything that Sherlock had once said about his wings echo in the bathroom. Ghostly whispers of a life lost. Desperately John reaches up, grabbing a handful of feathers and pulling. The pain makes the whispers stop. Just for a tic though. So he keeps pulling. Ignoring the blood that wells up from his rough treatment.

"You were wrong. There is nothing amazing about gliding," he mutters viciously clawing at his wings, "Nothing _fascinating_ about these. You _lied_. You were _wrong_. Should have been able to catch you. Would have been able to if I had _proper_ fascinating wings."

He continues to rant lowly, all his pain and anguish bubbling over. It's been a year since the day that Sherlock jumped. Oh god. It's been a year. He hasn't been going to therapy like he's told Mrs. Hudson he has been. Going instead to Sherlock's grave and begging for a miracle. He can't bear to think what she would say. Or the calm way she would say it.

He looks at his wings and can still see Sherlock running his fingers through feathers that aren't there anymore. It isn't enough. It isn't enough to disfigure them. To make the ghost go away. His hands clench as he hears the Not-Sherlock voicing his anguish at John doing what he is doing to his wings. His lover had loved touching his wings. John _hates_ them, hated them even before Sherlock died. And now he hates these phantom touches. From the corner of his eyes, he spots his first aid kit. It's a big clunky thing and it is fully stocked. Might even have trauma shears in it. It should unless… He jerks his thoughts away from Mrs. Hudson and her concern for him. Sherlock's voice is back, low and rumbling, begging him to stop.

"Go away… Please… I… I can't handle you being there but not," he cries dropping to his knees in front of his kit. With shaky hands, he opens it. It takes some pawing around but he finds them. He doesn't even take off his shirt just reaches back like that one time he dressed up for Sherlock and didn't want anyone to see him in the slinky black dress. His arms ache and opening and closing the shears on his wings just won't work. In a fit of anger, he jabs the blade into the flesh of his wing. It hurts. Fuck does it hurt. For a moment he considers stopping. For a moment the rational side of his brain kicks in. It tells him that it hurts. Tells him that there are better ways. Tells him that there are coping methods he could use.

But the grief and trauma that he has been ignoring wins out. It's his fault Sherlock is dead. Because of him and his faulty wings, too small to get him off the ground. So he continues to stab into his wings and drags it down. Sometimes he switches from under the armpits to over his shoulders. Jabbing and slicing at his wings. He's not sure how long he's been in the bathroom mangling the part of him he's hated for so long when a voice- not Hudson, not Sherlock- booms around him.

"John Hamish Watson, stop right this instant!"

He startles like a scolded child and looks up at Mycroft in shock. The man's cat ears are pinned back and his tail is twitching in agitation. John knows he should stop, but he can't. Because of him Mycroft no longer…

"Oh, John."

There are hands touching him, holding him, stopping him. He struggles weakly. Blood loss? Shock? His arms are heavy. Nerve damage?

"It's not your fault. It's not your fault he's gone."

"But he isn't. Not really. He won't leave my head. Always there. My fault. Just wanted it to stop," he slurs into the shoulder he's pressed against. When did that happen? Other people are milling about. Losing time isn't a good thing. Sherlock wouldn't like them moving things about. They are throwing the word 'Suicidal' around like candy and so is 'Underweight'. EMT's, his mind whispers, Mycroft must have called them. They are wasting their time. He's fine.

"You are not fine. This is… is.. More than a bit not good!"

John lets out a sound that is a broken mix of a laugh and a sob at that. Is he broken? He may be broken. But it's fine. He's fine. Functional even! Or maybe not. His hands clumsily grasp at Mycroft as he is pulled away from the man. Wings twitch out of habit sending pain careening down his spine. The last thing he sees before he passes out is Sherlock standing there, looking at him so sadly.

He wakes to the bright lights of a hospital and the warmth of a hand holding his.

"Glad to see you decide to join the living once more, John."

John looks at Mycroft. Mind heavy with painkillers. The British government official is disheveled, there are dark bags under his eyes. When he doesn't talk Mycroft speaks again.

"You severely damaged your wings. Which was what I'm assuming you were after so, good job that. They'll never be the same, may not even grow back the feathers. You might have also lost some motion in your right arm, it and your right wing are the most damaged."

The disappointed look that Mycroft levels him with would have John shifting if he wasn't in the contraption that hospitals used to keep patients off their back.

"You will remain here until cleared and then you will be moving in with me," Mycroft pauses, "I… I already lost Sherlock. I won't lose you too."

John lets out a sad chirp and lets the medication pull him back under.


End file.
